Of Toy Soldiers and Granite Angels
by achillies-eel
Summary: Dean contemplates his self-appointed role through the thought-patterns of a fourteen year old. Pre-series. Possibility of a companion fic. Reviews appreciated!


_A/N: With this fic, I just sat down and started typing. Literally. I've never had my muse be this cooperative. Just coughed this up about an hour ago, so forgive any mistakes. Because this is from Dean's fourteen-year-old mind, it may be a bit confusing or mixed up in some parts. I tried to base it on what I could remember from my fourteenth year. The poem is totally random and has almost nothing to do with the story, other than it's contribution to the title._

Edit: _I realized, when I was reading this over, that I'd accidentally posted one of the verses in the poem twice. I've fixed that. _

_Warning: Bad words sometimes. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural. Surprisingly enough, I actually own the poem. Like, seriously._

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**Of Toy Soldiers and Granite Angels**

_A faded title, carved out by hand  
Across a faded, choppy rock  
I do not know who put it there;  
What I would give to hear it talk._

_A granite Angel stands silent guard  
Over you, my weathered stone;  
Why these letters across your face?  
Why stand they here, alone?_

Dad thought he didn't notice.

But he did.

Dean noticed every time dad stopped, hand streched out in front of him, frozen, or a foot halted mid-step. His eyes would take on that faraway look of someone letting their mind drift. His expression, normally stoic, would turn into a vague grimace, lines around his eyes tightening and face becoming that much more like one of Sam's plastic soldiers. Kinda like that poem he'd had to read once, about that Angel standing guard over a grave. A granite angel.

When that happened, Dean would stop whatever he was doing and step outside the room. Outside whatever shitty motel they were staying at, maybe stop over at a park, the mall, or a store. Sometimes just into the other room, sometimes to go play with Sammy. Anything to give his dad a moment of privacy.

Sometimes, when they were driving to another state or country to check up a possible job, Dad would suddenly pull over, park at a reststop or gas station, sometimes even just the side of the road. Even if they'd stopped just minutes ago, had lunch or filled up on gas, Dean wouldn't say a word. Just open the door, pull Sammy out and shush his protests or questions, distract him with some excuse he'd pulled out of his ass, and a book or two, until Dad managed to get his game face back on.

_How sad must be the reason  
Behind you sitting here;  
A grieving hand to mark the grave  
Of a treasured love so dear_

_For a shaking hand, the name is clear  
And still, I don't know why  
When I see what's written there  
A tear falls from my eye_

When Dad'd disappear from their motel room, with nothing more than a, "Going out.", Dean wouldn't ask questions. He'd begin a board game with Sammy, maybe clean out their weapon's cache, cook dinner or whatever he could think of to keep Sam happy and ignorant of anything unusual happening. And when Dad came home, most likely fucked or just this side of plastered, Dean would make sure Sam was asleep and out of the way. If his dad felt the need to vent - at the world, mom's death, the shit they all had to go through - Dean was there, hiding injured feelings if the words tossed about were particularly crushing.

Because Dean understood what Dad was going through. Hell, he went through it every day. Unlike Dad, though, he'd always been good at denial, at convincing himself everything was okay, that it was all just a terrible nightmare that would go away after awhile. Why did Dad think he was such a good liar? Because he could convince himself that the lie was truth. And when you couldn't drown yourself in alcohol, what else was left? Lying was just that much better than the alternative. Maybe it was unhealthy, maybe it was wrong, but with all that crap, that pain buried, he could think about mom without getting a dull, throbbing ache in his chest, like a big hole had suddenly appeared, trying to suck him down and drown him in misery. Sometimes, lying to yourself was just worth the temporary bliss that came with it.

_A simple name, but quite familiar,  
Chisled here with tender care  
Why is your name upon this block?  
Could I have put it there?_

_It all comes back in one swift rush  
The reason I am present  
I wish I could forget again;  
I wish this were still pleasant_

Sam, who seemed to be hitting the 'Terrible Twos' well into his ninth year, had a penchant for irritating Dad. While that was good in some cases, like distracting and keeping Dad away from that dark place he sometimes slipped into, at other times, it was disastrous. It was at those times that Dean tried to be the mediator, tried to get in between the two of them, keep them both from killing each other. Dean sometimes wondered how such an idiot with no sense of self preservation could be his nine-year-old brother.

And Sam, in his annoying new nine-year-old brilliance, couldn't seem to understand Dean's compliance to their dad's orders, nor Dean's quiet acceptance of whatever shit dad chose to dump on him. Nor could he understand why Dean didn't _fight the fuck back_.

Sam would never understand. Christ, Dean barely understood it himself sometimes. Dean could forgive his brother for his ignorance. His stupidity. Because Sam was a whiny bitch who just wasn't observant as he was, and nowhere near as world-weary. That was one thing he could still be thankful for - that Sam was still innocent, even just a little bit, despite their dad's profession, one which he'd pulled both of them into without a fucking 'by your leave'.

So even if Sam wouldn't - couldn't - understand the reasons behind Dean's compliance to all of Dad's messed up orders and thinking, Dean wouldn't tell him. Because Sam probably wouldn't understand anyway. Not that it mattered. Not when Dean was just as ignorant on the matter himself.

Maybe it was just being a good son: Daddy's good little soldier. Maybe it was some twisted form of pity or sympathy, he wasn't quite sure which. Whatever the case, it was still his job to take care of Sam. To take care of Dad. To keep this little fucked up family together. Because they were all they had left in the world.

So that's why, when Dad orders them to jog around the building, Dean goes without complaint. And when Sam starts to put on his bitch-face, Dean shoots him a look that shuts him up. Because even if it isn't right, and it's not supposed to be his job to keep his brother and his dad in line, he will anyway, 'cuz nothing has been right since Mom died, since Dad was left to raise to boys on his own. And when Dad can't take charge - when he's thinking back on that day, years ago, that horrible, tragic day - Dean takes charge for him, because it's his job. Because he's needed, even if Dad won't admit it.

And hey, if he's willing to admit it, maybe the gentle squeeze of Dad's hand on the back of his neck, and the quirk of a smile that appears on his lips for split second, is worth all the hidden trouble he goes to to keep them all safe. Happy. Free. Keep the demons of the past buried, his own included.

Maybe that's why he does it. Because it's right. Because it feels right, and it makes him feel right.

Yeah. He can live with that.

_But forgetting would be so much worse  
Than just temporary relief  
Better to have you on my mind  
Than be rid of my grief_

_So I step away and leave you here  
But in the off chance you'll miss me  
I will place the flowers in my hand  
In this Angel's arms, for thee._

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_A/N: Like it? Hate it? Be sure to drop a line._


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